


Are you my dream or am I yours instead?

by Handfulofdust



Series: Have I waited too long? [1]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 12:39:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16744156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handfulofdust/pseuds/Handfulofdust
Summary: Olivia wakes up on Christmas morning to a man in her bed and an excited boy at her door. Tropes occur.or: I've been watching too many Hallmark movies





	Are you my dream or am I yours instead?

"Momma, papa!! It’s Christmas,” she hears from the other side of the door.

She’s warm and soft and comfy and she doesn’t understand why Noah is yelling about Christmas at what must be 5 am or some other ungodly hour for a weekday. Maybe if she goes back to sleep he’ll stop.

He’s 6. Of course he doesn’t stop. The next thing she hears is rattling against the door.

Before she can say anything there's rustling against her. For the first time she registers a body next to hers in the bed. She can’t remember going to bed with anyone. In fact, she’d been gifted a very large bottle of very expensive wine last night before getting some very stupid news.

Some very aggravating, very stupid news that may have caused her to throw a certain person out of her apartment and contemplate blocking his phone number.

She didn’t. She just opened the bottle, drank most of it, and cried herself to sleep.

“Dios,” a male voice mutters next to her. “Mijo,” he calls to the door, “you can come in.”

She's just twisting around to figure out what is going on when the door opens and shuts quickly, followed by a mass of curls and a small body slamming into her.

“Momma!” he stage whispers, snuggling into her and grinning. “It’s Christmas!”

She can't help the laugh - and she’s so startled by everything she doesn’t even manage to scold him for jumping into bed. “So you said, Sweet Boy.”

“Noah,” the male voice says archly. He sounds… familiar. “Remember we had a deal.”

Noah gasps, then turns toward the man, “but Dad, it’s Christmas!”

_Dad_? Who the hell?

“And Christmas means you can't wake us up until after 9 am.”

Only a very good lawyer would have managed to negotiate a plea deal with a small child to wait for Christmas. And this is a very good lawyer. The best.

The same one who gave her the very expensive bottle of wine and then told her he was moving. That was last night, right?

“You also said I can come sleep in your bed with you guys on Christmas,” Noah folds his arms over his chest, “and it’s Christmas.”

He says the last phrase as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is. Maybe she'd follow this conversation if she knew anything that led up to it.

Maybe she'd have something to contribute to the conversation if her best friend wasn't in her bed and her son wasn't calling him Dad. If said best friend wasn’t supposed to be leaving her at the new year.

“I'll allow it,” Rafael laughs, ruffling Noah’s hair. “but I have conditions.”

“Daaaad!” he whines as if this is the worst thing that could have possibly happened to him in all the years.

“You can sleep here,” he leads, getting to whatever his conditions are, “but when the alarm goes off at nine no more whining.”

Noah sighs, “Okay.”

Rafael raises his eyebrows. “You promise?”

“Cross my heart,” he emphasizes by making a motion across his chest.

Noah burrows beneath the covers. He came prepared. He brought Eddie.

She’s clearly having some sort of delusion brought on by the amount of wine she drank combined with the stress of Rafael Barba informing her about this great job he found in the Midwest. That’s the only explanation for why he’s in her bed, forming plea deals with her kid about Christmas behavior.

Somewhere when she was spacing out about what must be wrong with her brain Noah fell asleep. Maybe she has some sort of tumor? That sounds like a plot to a bad 90's movie.

“Okay,” Rafa whispers, “I bought you some time.”

She’s not following. Though it isn’t as if she’s followed any of this morning whatsoever. “Some time?”

He rolls his eyes, “I mean I can wrap them but you know how bad I am at folding.”

Okay, she’ll play whatever this game is. “And where are the gifts?”

“Fine,” he sniffs, “You win. It serves me right for waiting until the last minute. You are, as always, correct.”

That doesn’t sound like the man she knows, but it’s laced with just enough sarcasm to feel legitimate. Maybe.

She’s spared from trying to come up with a response when he leans over the sleeping boy between them and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t complain if things are in bags though.”

She manages a smile, and a shake of her head. She finds her mouth has gone dry because, well, the most undressed she’s ever seen Rafael Barba is in rolled up shirtsleeves. Today he is wearing a crisp white T-shirt and boxers.

She has no idea what the hell is happening, but she thinks she enjoys it.

She feels like if she goes to sleep everything will be gone and she's determined to let this play out. Last night she almost (definitely) cried herself to sleep thinking her best friend was abandoning her. Today it’s Christmas and she'd rather it be Christmas.

* * *

Her bed looks the same. Noah looks the same. Even Rafa looks the same - though he’s wearing far too little layers (not that she’s really complaining). At 9 am she’s going to enter the living room or the kitchen of this pod place and just… go with it?

So when the alarm sounds she gently turns it off and coaxes Noah awake.

He yells something about Santa and noel and reindeer and bounces off the bed, running down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Santa ate my cookies! He wrote me a letter!”

Santa's handwriting looks suspiciously like Rafa's, but Noah insists on reading the entire contents of his letter out loud.

“Adios, Santa,” he concludes, “Papá! Santa speaks Spanish. Like you and Momma and Abuela.”

“Santa speaks all of the languages Noah,” he answers from the oven, removing a pan of cinnamon rolls and placing them on the counter.

“Even Chinese?” Noah asks excitedly.

Rafa laughs, as if he doesn't know why this is the language Noah thinks is hard. “Even Chinese.”

“But how does he know all of them?”

“Rosetta Stone.”

She's thankful he doesn't question what that is, because she thinks he'll probably request Rosetta Stone for his birthday so he can learn whatever languages Pokemon speak or something.

Instead he says “Okay” and asks for a cinnamon roll.

* * *

Rafa asks her if she’s feeling alright when she doesn’t take a roll. She manages something about an unsettled stomach that he doesn’t seem to quite believe.

Maybe he isn’t as much of a fantasy as she’d like to tell herself.

Noah gets a robot from “Santa” ( _They’re supposed to help with coding skills,_ Rafa supplies helpfully) as well as several art supplies from what must have been the squad ( _Auntie Manda said I should use the colored pencils_ Noah adds, throwing half of them on the floor). In addition he receives several gifts that are suspiciously in bags and probably not actually from Santa. She should have known Rafa would spoil him outrageously.

She shouldn’t get her hopes up that this is real.

Luckily he hasn’t gone completely rotten by being extremely spoiled by his “dad”, because when he’s done with all of his gifts he doesn’t even pout. Not remotely.

“There's more!” Noah yells, darting behind the tree.

“Mijo that's not -” Rafa attempts to interrupt, but Noah has already grabbed the package.

“It says to Olivia,” he states, looking between them as if he’s quite confused. “Who's Olivia?”

She manages a laugh. “That'd be me, Sweet Boy.”

“Oh! Is it from Santa, too?”

He hands it to her and then jumps up next to her on the couch.

To: Olivia. From: Your Secret Santa.

She snorts, “Not exactly.”

It’s a small box, with such expert wrapping she’s almost certain it was done at the store. When she opens the lid and finds a pair of diamond solitaire earrings she’s also almost certain they’re not from a Secret Santa.

In fact, Secret Santa’s handwriting also looks suspiciously like Rafael Barba’s. And if his completely innocent look doesn’t give him away the whistling certainly does.

Is it wrong she wants to put them in? Or is it wrong that she leaves them on the end table?

This isn’t real. This can never be real. Not now.

* * *

They eat lunch and Noah insists on playing with his new robot. Though they have to stop him from using his art supplies to decorate the machine. Then he wants to watch A Muppet Christmas Carol and when Rafa puts his arms around her she might lean her head against his chest. Noah is barely paying attention, really, bounding from art supplies to robots to dinosaurs, but for that matter neither is she.

She feels too safe, too warm, too happy, and she really, really likes it.

When the movie is over Rafa talks him into taking a bath. She’s glad this gives her a few minutes to settle down. Whatever _this_ is she feels like she needs to tell whoever this Rafa is about it. As much as she would love to pretend to believe this is real, it isn’t fair.

So she leans against the refrigerator, trying not to chew on her nails. When the bathroom door opens and Rafa gives her a megawatt smile she tries to match it. It's the smile she always liked being the cause of - whether she told him that in real life or not.

He leans toward her and kisses the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. Part of her wants him to kiss her for real. The rest of her knows that’s a lie.

Instead he pulls away, mentioning something about a merry Christmas and Noah’s bathroom habits. She doesn’t quite follow him because he’s smiling and gesticulating and he’s so at ease she can’t think straight.

“Anyway,” he laughs, reaching into the cabinet to pull out a glass, “I think he did very well for not getting the puppy he decided was his birthright three weeks ago.”

The tone in his voice makes her think this has been a great topic of conversation, and she’d like one, but there is no way any of them have time to take care of a puppy. Though maybe in this life they do. Maybe she’s retired and Rafa works an office job. Maybe she transferred to a less grueling department. Maybe they still work together.

None of this seems correct, and it doesn’t really matter, because they didn’t get a puppy. At least, she hopes they aren’t hiding a puppy in the master bath or something.

“The whining agreement was only for today, right?”

“Good point,” He grins, leaning against the counter and sipping on the water he poured into the glass, “Maybe he'll forget and not try to sleep with us again.”

They both laugh and she wants to reach out and entwine her fingers with his, hug him close and never let him go. Not to Chicago, not to anywhere. But she needs to inform him just who she is first. However you do such a thing.

Clearly she isn’t great at explaining things because what comes out is “This is my apartment.”

He furrows a brow and looks over at her skeptically.

“Well yeah,” he places the glass on the counter. “Though it’s technically our apartment now.”

Rafael Barba entering into a contract with her landlord seems, well, like she’s dreaming.

“You signed a lease?”

“No,” he answers as if this is all obvious and he gave her a long speech about slum lords and the ridiculousness of Manhattan real estate. “I convinced your asshole landlord to let us buy it.”

He stops, and straightens himself up, crossing his arms over his chest. “Liv - I know you aren't feeling well today - but did you hit your head on something?”

Busted. _This is my apartment_ really did wonders for whatever this relationship is in this life. At least in this life he still calls her Liv sometimes and knows when she’s full of shit.

“I don't think so - it's just,” she stammers, sighs, “this is going to sound absolutely impossible.”

He raises an eyebrow in her direction, not moving his arms nor his body. “I'm listening.”

“When I went to sleep last night I was alone…” she starts. They probably go to bed together every night and that should help her. Right?

He huffs. If possible he tightens his arms around his chest even more. “My clerk found some last minute case work to help with the Dawes decision and - I’m sorry.”

Clerk, case work, decision. Is he - no. It doesn’t matter.

“I don't mean -” she trails off. He thinks she’s accusing him of something. This shouldn’t be that hard. “Rafa - when did we get together?”

He rolls his eyes.

“This game again.”

This game. Again? As if there’s something to misconstrue about when they became an item. She didn’t realize such things could be so murky. “I say it was the first date. You have other opinions.”

There’s a glimmer of a smirk behind whatever he’s upset about. As if there’s a reason he could be cocky about whatever happened either way.

“The …” she can't find the words, the entendres, so instead she just goes for it. “Sex came before the date?”

His tongue darts between his lips as if to keep himself from laughing uncontrollably.

“We couldn’t really figure out how to wait. I wasn’t complaining. I mean, you were there.”

He’s unfolded his arms and placed them behind himself on the counter. Completely open and accessible. His face is soft and his expression is bordering on happy. He thinks she’s flirting.

Oh. She’s never been more disappointed to burst a bubble.

She has to break this spell down before he becomes too real and she gets stuck in a world that doesn’t exist.

“I don’t remember,” she whispers, closing her eyes as if to shield herself from the pain. There’s no way to shield herself from the pain.

“Liv -” the color drains from his face and he’s across the kitchen in seconds, searching her face frantically, “if we need to go to the hospital I can -”

“No,” she interrupts, flailing out a hand that he catches in his own. “I feel fine,”

No she doesn’t feel fine. She’s disoriented and dizzy and overwhelmed and likely delusional, but if she does have some kind of tumor she’d rather find out about it tomorrow.

“I just,” she sighs, “yesterday you came to my apartment, gave me a giant bottle of wine and told me you were thinking of moving to Chicago. Today you're my… “

Partner, boyfriend, we don’t have labels for it, fantasy dream boyfriend who has ridiculous ideas about what a Secret Santa is?

“Husband,” he supplies, tone laced with a kind of psychic pain she feels awful for inflicting.

It should feel amazing to hear, and, it does, but how could she not know that?

“Husband?” she gasps, raising her free hand to his cheek.

He drops her other hand to clasp the one at his cheek, placing a kiss to it before dropping it between them.

“You really don't remember?”

He’s caressing his thumb against her palm and looking at her as if she’s some kind of rare glass figurine he’s going to break.

She looks down at the exquisitely cut, probably Tiffany, definitely expensive ring on her finger. It’s so nice she doesn’t know how she’d missed it before. How would anyone not remember this man giving you this? But she doesn’t, and she wants to wholeheartedly.

This isn’t even real, and it’s devastating that it isn’t.

“No,” she sniffles, “I'm sorry.”

“Well, he smiles sadly, “this at least explains how strange you’ve been today.”

“I've been strange?”

Of course he noticed. He thought everything was strange. Probably beginning with whatever the stomach comment was. Of course this Rafa is discerning and whip smart and doesn’t miss a beat.

She wouldn’t want him any other way.

“You cringed when I kissed you and you didn't give me shit about Secret Santa.”

Cringed? No, she definitely wasn't cringing. “I wasn’t expecting it,” she shrugs.

He tilts his head slightly, “Which is strange.”

“Was Secret Santa supposed to be a joke?”

He smiles. This time it barely, slightly reaches his eyes. “Only that my Secret Santa gifts have always been too much and you complain wildly every time while absolutely adoring them.”

She grins, even though she can’t be falling for him. Not like this. Not for this. Not now.

He’s just a phantom, a figment. A wish her heart made and forgot to tell her about.

“That does sound like me.”

He drops her hand completely. Apparently the wrong thing to say.

“You really don't remember?” he asks, running his fingers through his unkempt, ungelled hair.

He’s speaking of something specific, something important. Something she should know.

“What?”

“Marching up to my apartment and telling me that a man who gives $2400 jewelry for Secret Santa doesn't understand how Secret Santa works and then…” he laughs, as if the memory that has always brought him joy now brings him pain. “Making out with me?”

Secret Santa implies an office setting and confronting him about $2400 jewelry implies he knew what he wanted and was willing to take it. A dream if she’s ever heard one.

“You let me make out with you?”

“Let you?” he looks up in disbelief, “What do you think I was trying to say with $2400 jewelry?”

If she can’t ask Real Rafa why he’s not in love with her, or at least not willing to do anything about what she’s pretty sure is sexual tension, maybe she can ask Fake Rafa why he actually did something about the chemistry.

Maybe that’s the entire point of this.

“The conflict of interest wasn't a problem for you?”

That’s, at least, what she’s always told herself. Given his reaction to Ed and his finely tuned moral compass. That maybe he would have done something about it before she tried to ruin her career, and maybe they can be friends still, but he’ll never forgive her for it. Not truly.

The alternative is this is how he feels about everyone and she’s worked it up into something it isn’t.

The alternative is that he feels a great deal but isn’t willing to sacrifice anything for her. Which is - her life, really.

“I guess you mattered more to me.”

Now she knows this isn't the real Rafael. The real Rafael would never say something like that. Not to her. Not for her. He wouldn’t give up the fight for truth, justice, and precedent for something as trivial as true love.

“Hey,” he murmurs, almost sensing her discomfort. He’s unbearably close now, and it shouldn’t be comforting. He reaches over and runs a thumb under her eye. “What kind of jackass am I in this other life of yours that I make Olivia Benson cry?”

She laughs over the tears that are forming. Maybe this is a version of who he could be - who they could be, but as it is he's right about being a jackass. A jackass who tells her he's thinking of moving to Chicago for some damn reason.

He'd told her what the reason was, but her ears had filled with blood and dull sounds of car alarms because her best friend had sprung this on her with no real lead up. No speech. No closing argument. Just “Hey Liv. I think I'm going to take a job in Chicago.”

A jackass who invites you to dinners after tough cases, who shares intimate details of his childhood, who plays with your kid even though kids terrify him.

A jackass who makes you think he's interested in more then doesn't do anything whatsoever.

Which makes this all the more hurtful, really.

She leans into his palm and makes a sound at the back of her throat. It’s supposed to be a laugh, but so much for laughs. “A jackass who doesn't love me back.”

He strokes his thumb against her cheek, “Now that can't be true.”

Maybe it isn’t, maybe she’s delusional. Maybe this is the life she has to take for herself. But she’s doubtful.

“I thought you did - he did,” she corrects, “that he might but -”

If he did he would have told her, right?

“I'm as real as I know how to be and I love you very much,” he grins, placing a kiss to her forehead, “Captain.”

To hear those words in that voice brighten her world and lift her heart but there’s something, hollow. Something wrong, something unreal. Besides, who’s this Captain?

“Captain?” she asks.

“You're still a Lieutenant in this other life?” he looks down at her, realization dawning, “Which means I’m still an ADA?”

“Yes. Does your clerk and your decision last night mean you’re the famous Judge Barba now?”

She can’t help it. She’s ecstatic for him. It’s what he always wanted. What he thought he always wanted, and if her hand is clutching his forearm she can’t help it.

This is definitely a dream where everybody gets everything they ever wanted and that's the problem. In real life there are… conditions. In real life she definitely couldn't be a captain while he's a sitting judge. Real dreams come at a price.

So they enjoy what they have now.

She helps Noah out of the bath and dries his hair, and she doesn’t even argue when he assures her that the Christmas Deal means he gets to sleep in their bed again overnight. When he excitedly tells Rafa this he merely shakes his head and tells him to stop jumping on the bed.

It’s almost as if he knew this was coming. It’s almost as if he enjoys this. God how she wants it to be real.

She snuggles under the cover and breathes in Noah's hair. Then looks over and smiles at Rafa, entwining their fingers.

She sighs, closing her eyes. Maybe when she wakes up this will actually be real.

* * *

_Of course it wasn’t real._

That’s her first thought as she wakes up to an empty bed and crusty eyes she can barely open. A sure sign she definitely cried herself to sleep last night. Well, maybe only a little. A definitive sign Christmas morning wasn’t real at all.

At least, it was only real in her dreams.

There’s really nothing to do about it. So she washes her face, cleans out her eyes, and resolves to start the day.

She wakes up Noah, and checks her phone. There’s dumb texts from Carisi about Festivus miracles and pictures of Fin’s grandchild. Even one from Amanda confirming the play date with Jesse and Noah.

Nothing from Rafa. She must’ve really done a number on him when she kicked him out. There isn’t even a missed call and that man doesn’t give up easily.

Though maybe he got what he wanted. A clean break from her terrible influence that surely torpedoed his all important clearance rate. Maybe all he ever wanted was a stepping stone and he finally found his next rung.

Maybe she should’ve done him the courtesy of listening to whatever his reasons were. Instead she flew off the handle like her best friend was moving away. But - her best friend was moving away and she’s allowed to fly off the handle when she only has two weeks to say goodbye.

She cooks breakfast and wakes up Noah and drops him off at Amanda’s.

She isn’t able to bring herself to tell her why she’s so upset. Besides, it’s Rafa’s job to tell everyone about his stupid decisions.

“I just had a really weird dream last night,” she assures Rollins. “And it’s been throwing me off.”

“Oh, been there. You know, one time, I dreamt I was the traffic lady on New York One.” Amanda laughs, “I don’t even watch New York One.”

She lets her think it’s something inane and innocuous and not that they’re definitely going to be losing their ADA after the New Year.

Even though Carisi assures her no one is at the station and that he’d call her if anyone did come in, she still drops by. He’s playing Candy Crush and reading over cold cases. When she tells him he can go home if he wants he tells her no. He assures her he wants the hours. Apparently his sisters get ridiculous over the holidays and he’d like to use his job as an excuse.

She leans back in her chair and sighs. She really needs to talk to Rafa, to let him tell her just why he felt the need to leave them behind. It’s too bad the very thought of it makes her want to cry all over again.

What a mess she is. Though the dream is likely a sign she needs to tell him how she feels. At least she can say she took her chance, even if he doesn’t want it. Right?

She tries texting him. He doesn’t answer. She tries calling. It goes to voicemail.

His apartment is further away than his office and she has a funny feeling that’s where he is anyway. She says her goodbyes to Carisi, wishes him a happy holiday and heads over to Hogan Place. S

he knocks on Rafa’s office door and lets herself in. He’s sitting behind his desk, furiously writing some kind of note, barely noticing her presence.

“Of course you’re working on Christmas Eve,” she attempts to laugh, sitting in the chair in front of his desk.

“It’s the 23rd,” he corrects, not looking up, “and I still have work to do.”

This is going to be even more difficult than she imagined. “I came over here to let you tell me why you decided to move to Chicago.”

“I told you last night,” he mutters, flipping the notepad over to the next page, “I got a job offer. You didn’t want to hear the rest.”

“I was in shock. I’m sorry.” She’s sorry for the way she reacted. Not for being pissed he hadn’t told her before. “Today I’m ready to listen.”

“Forgive me if I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he grimaces, “Olivia.”

He has a right to be mad at her for the way she reacted, but this seems like something else. It seems like more. But she came here to finish something and she’s going to finish it, damn it.

“Since you don’t want to talk about it then I will tell you that I had,” she swallows, “A very vivid dream last night.”

“I didn’t realize our friendship had gotten to the point that you shared your personal inclinations Liv,” he snarks. Fingers wrapped around the fancy pen he’s using to make notes.

“No,” she shakes her head, wishing she had something to do with her own fingers. “It wasn’t like that. I was… married and it was Christmas and -”

“You were Mrs. Claus?”

If he keeps joking about this she’s never going to be able to get through it. Maybe she’s not supposed to share the details with him? But how could she not?

“It was my apartment. Noah was very happy. We were all very happy.”

His hand is tense around the fancy pen. For a split second his face shifts, as if the idea is painful to him. If only he knew.

“Your subconscious is a Hallmark movie, then. Did you go back to bed to get the sequel?” he jokes. It’s almost hurtful.

“I’m serious. I don’t -” she gasps. “I don’t know what it means.”

“Liv,” he murmurs, tone suddenly so soft she doesn’t want to look up and see his eyes, “we both know you want someone to share your life with - we all do. There’s nothing to be sad about.”

“Except that I’ll never have it,” she sighs. She’ll never have him. That’s what she really wants to say. “That’s all.”

“Hey,” he drops the pen. She looks up. The pity in his eyes makes her want to scream. “If your ex-partner never came back to tell you how he felt, then he didn’t deserve you. I mean that. You just keep telling yourself until your body believes it.”

“I -” she stumbles. Elliot? He thinks she’s talking about Elliot Stabler?

“I know that’s easier said than done, believe me, but after awhile it helps.”

She snorts, “like anyone’s ever rejected you.”

He grimaces. No, _cringes._ Then he turns away slightly and exhales noisily. “Maybe insulting the person you’re trying to get advice from isn’t the best idea.”

“It wasn’t - it wasn’t Elliot.”

“Well you did almost marry Tucker, right? Makes sense.”

She received some advice once, from Cragen, about how a fight isn’t always about what you think it’s about. How sometimes you’re yelling about who does the dishes or the laundry, when really it’s about who’s being more insensitive.

Rafa must think she’s mad he’s leaving. She is, but she’s mostly mad he chose Chicago over New York, over the team, over _her_.

She didn’t realize he was still mad about Tucker. Not to this degree.

“Rafa-” she attempts in a smooth voice, the one she uses for small children and victims.

“God,” he interrupts, bristling against her gentility. “Liv - I know you aren’t interested,” he flexes a hand in the air and then presses it against the oak desk, “and I’m trying to be a friend, but I’m not a saint.”

Neither of them think he’s a saint. She’d never want a saint. She wants him and she doesn’t know what he thinks she isn’t interested in. She has more hope than ever that they’re on the same page, but she still doesn’t know what the fuck he’s actually mad about.

Because if it’s what she suspects, then what are they doing?

“I’m not interested?” she furrows her brow, “in what?”

“Fine, we don’t have to talk about it,” he sighs “I get it. We’re adults. We can move on from it and still be friends.”

“No,” she sits up, hands against the front of the desk, “You don’t get to leave me and choose Chicago over me and then tell me I’m not interested. You didn’t give me an option to be interested. In whatever you’re talking about being interested in.”

Are they speaking in code?

“Can we drop all of this, please?” he pleads, as if she’s causing him physical pain. “Last night I asked if there was a reason for me to stay and you told me to get the fuck out of your apartment. You can’t claim I’m choosing something over you when you don’t want the option.”

He -

Wait -

What?

“Can we drop the metaphors?” she sighs, “What option did I not want or take?”

“Me,” he sighs, closing his eyes. “I’m in love with you, okay? Does it make you happy to hear it out loud?”

“Yes,” she breathes, realizing the tears behind her eyes are now flowing down her cheeks.

She can tell he’s warring with himself to offer her a handkerchief and asking what the hell she’s talking about. He chooses the latter.

“Why would that make you happy?”

Because all she ever wanted was to hear it out loud, to feel that he was on the same page. To have someone, him, love her back wholeheartedly.

“Who wouldn’t be happy to know their best friend is in love with them?”

“Someone who’s having Christmas fantasies married to other people.”

“Who said I was married to other people in the dream?”

He stops, shuts his mouth. He’s probably one step away from asking the court reporter to read back the transcript. He’s ridiculous.

“You woke up on Christmas morning and you were married to me?”

“Yes.”

“And you were happy?”

“Yes.”

“And this phantom world me wasn’t an asshole?”

“No, he was lovely actually.”

“So now we know it wasn’t based on reality.”

He’s very wrong there. He wasn’t real, but he was based in the man he could be - if he wanted. But he doesn’t.

Because while he does love her back, she missed her chance. He’s still moving. He’s not going to do anything about it, and he’s not going to let her down gently.

“Liv,” he gestures helplessly. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

She sighs. “I know.”

Whoever thought a petty thing like love would convince a man like Rafael Barba to change his plans?

* * *

She leaves his office, proverbial tail between her legs. She goes back home to an empty apartment with a sad tree, and a picture of the jackass she’s in love with teaching her son about the Jurassic Era on the refrigerator.

She doesn’t realize she was hoping he would come after her until there’s a knock on the door. It’s just the delivery driver. She tips him extra for not asking why she looks like death warmed over.

She’s halfway through the moo goo gai pan when it hits her. She doesn’t need to let him be a jackass about this. What outdated, anti-feminist romantic comedy trope makes her think he’s the one who has to fix this? Because he’s wrong.

He’s wrong not to take a chance on her and what they could have. He never really let her tell him that. So she folds the takeout container back together, puts it in the fridge, and locks the door behind her.

What’s Festivus for if not airing your grievances?

So she marches over to his apartment and knocks on his door and launches into him as soon as she hears the lock unlatch.

“I've decided that you're wrong,” she huffs, barreling into the foyer. “If you really did love me then you'd have overcome all of your objections about conflicts of interest and idiotic notions that I’m in love with someone else and fucking kissed me.”

He’s still holding the door, and he’s in shock. She expected that. What she didn’t expect was him to not be looking at her.

“Lieutenant Benson,” she hears a familiar voice behind her, and whirls around to find the District Attorney of New York County just witnessed her do something incredibly stupid.

“Jack -” she gulps, “What are you -”

“Doing here?” he smiles, as if somehow he understands. “Trying to convince the best ADA I have not to leave, but now it makes a sort of sense.”

McCoy bounds for the door and reaches out a hand in Barba’s direction. “Rafael, I accept your resignation.”

Rafael nods, and shakes the man’s hand, “Thank you, sir.”

“Lieutenant Benson,” he nods at her, “Merry Christmas.”

She barely gets out a merry Christmas in response because her ears are filling with blood and dull noises again. She can’t believe she just did that and she can’t believe Rafa actually resigned.

“You’re still leaving?” she asks, as he shuts the door.

“What did you expect?” he crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against it. A gesture achingly familiar from a different time, a different world. “Me to drop everything and all of my plans because you had a dream where I was nice?”

It’s not just that. She loves him. He loves her. She wants him to choose love.   

“I just want someone to choose me, to stay for me,” she stops to take a breath, “to love me as much as I love them.”

“Someone,” his mouth twists in front of her, “not me.”

He was right about being an asshole, wasn’t he?

But she realizes, in that moment, she never actually told him how she felt. She told him what she wanted, what she wished, but she never did tell him that she loved him too.

"You are my someone, jackass,” she runs a finger over her forehead, “I wanted you to stay. I wanted you to choose me, but you never actually did anything but expect me to read your mind. I do love you, you know?”

He crosses the length of the apartment to put his hands over her shoulders. If she didn’t know better she’d think he’d be about to kiss her. He searches her eyes, as if to confirm what she said actually happened.

She wants to reach over and rub her thumb over his cheek. She wants to smooth out the worry lines on his face. She wants to kiss him, really.

She’s think of doing just that when he breaks the silence.

“I’m not moving,” he states as if that means everything in the entire world, and it just might.

“But - you resigned,” she furrows her brow and instead he smooths _his_ thumb over _her_ cheek.

“See,” he laughs, and that beautiful smile is back, “you can't kiss the head of Manhattan SVU if kissing her will lead to an internal investigation by her ex-boyfriend. I mean,” he stops, moving his hand to her side, “you can, but why risk it? Especially if the simpler answer is to sacrifice something else?”

She can’t help the grin that breaks out across her face. He was choosing her, he was just doing it his way, and she can’t be mad about that. Not for a second.

“So you’re staying in New York, but you’re unemployed,” she teases, grabbing him by the neck and letting her fingers play at his nape.

“No,” he laughs, “I’m staying with the DA’s office through the New Year and I accepted a position as a staff attorney with the ACLU this morning.”

“This morning?” she twists slightly as both of his hands settle along her back, “But I didn’t tell you anything until this afternoon?”

“I had to move in a different direction,” he sniffs, “but I couldn’t leave my family behind.”

She’s stopped from the comment she wants to make by his lips. And, when he pulls away to ask her what she wanted to say she genuinely can’t remember. Something about Christmas and family and dreams coming true, but that’s not real. That’s a Hallmark movie and she definitely isn’t Mrs. Claus.

She isn’t anyone she didn’t want to be and that’s good enough for her. The real thing is more than enough for her. Someone finally sacrificed something for her, someone finally stayed for her. She’s ecstatic to know he’s the right someone.

And she’s definitely done waiting.

So she mutters something about too many clothes and he unties the belt to her jacket, and, well, one thing leads to another. She’s really not about to wait for a date. Not when he makes her feel this good and it seems like everything’s been leading up to this.

But - that’s, in a word, silly. She doesn’t really care.

And if his eagerness is any indication, neither does he. So she lets things happen and she barely even worries about the state of undress she’s in afterwards. Because he’s looking at her like she hung the moon and she has no control over the way her mouth wants to kiss his.

No, that’s wrong.

She has plenty of control over all of her body parts, and so does he. They’ve just both finally learned to take what they want. She's also a little delirious over how happy she is. How happy they make each other feel.

“You know,” she grins as he pulls the covers over them, “I’m not going to explain to my squad your job change.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he laughs, pulling her against him. “Besides, Carisi’s the only one who will care.”

She doubts that very much, but that’s an argument for when Amanda finds out and makes life Hell for his replacement.

“Just tell him you experienced a Festivus miracle, and he’ll go easy on you,” she mutters into his bare chest.

He snorts. She feels it against her head, “Isn’t a Festivus miracle just an ordinary thing?”

She pulls back so she can look in his eyes. “The ordinary thing was us listening to each other.”

He nods, rubbing his fingers against her lower back, “and the real miracle was you loving me back.”

She shakes her head and nuzzles back against him. She doesn’t really have anything to argue about, even though she thinks the miracle is him loving her back.

* * *

 “MOMMA!” she hears yelling from the other side of the door, “PAPAAA!”

“Do you think if we pretend to sleep he’ll go away,” Rafa mutters against her head.

“He’s probably like two steps away from breaking down the door,” she grumbles, twisting away from him.

The door rattles, and Noah continues, “SANTA CAME HERE!”

“Mijo!” Rafa calls as he gets out of bed, “We need to learn to settle down.”

When he opens the door he is met with a pouting Noah. “I’m sorry Papá. I got excited.”

“And that’s perfectly fine,” he smiles, bending over to kiss his forehead, “just try not to break the door okay?”

“Okay!” he beams, “Momma! Santa came!”

She’s very aware that Santa came because Rafa insisted on buying like 45 things and spoiling him rotten. They were expertly wrapped beneath the tree thanks to a team of elves who were all too happy to impress their boss.

She tried to tell him he was abusing his privileges as ACLU Legal Director but he would hear nothing of it. Besides, the wrapping party had allowed them a few moments of alone time to take Noah to visit with the puppies at the humane society. She’s also pretty sure one of his attorneys is a bit in love with both of them and she wrangled the whole thing. He probably has no idea. Well, he probably has some idea and doesn't care.

They officially gift him the puppy for Christmas (even though it’s been in the house for two weeks to potty train) because Rafa finally found a bow that was good enough. Noah names him Felix. She assumes this is from Fix-It Felix or Felix the Cat, but Rafa has decided it’s after Felix Frankfurter. The way he rants about complicated figures and judicial restraint has her utterly convinced this is the real Rafa. As if an 8 year old has any idea who Felix Frankfurter is.

She honestly wouldn’t want him any other way.

There aren’t any cinnamon rolls, or colored pencils. He isn’t a judge and she isn’t a captain, but she knows Rafa adores his job and all of the people who work for him. Besides, she’s taking the Captain’s exam in January.

Noah does get a robot and a bunch of dinosaurs. She also makes out with her husband when their son is taking a bath, but that’s pretty normal at this point. Exquisitely, beautifully normal at this point.

That evening they all snuggle into bed, Felix lies on the floor in front of it. She nuzzles Noah's curls as she grabs Rafa's hand. This time she isn't worried he won't be there in the morning.

This time she knows he’ll be there in the morning.

Sometimes the price for dreams is sacrificing your pride. She's never been happier to wake up on Christmas. Because this time she has what she always wanted. This time she knows what she always wanted.

This Christmas she woke up with her family. Sometimes real dreams come at a price you were actually willing to pay.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy even though it's basically tooth-rotting fluff. :)
> 
> The title *is* from a Sondheim lyric as per usual but it's some song that got mostly cut from The Birdcage so have fun with that. And Felix Frankfurter is one of the founders of the ACLU who later became a Supreme Court Justice and was mostly known for being... combative and mostly a dick, really.


End file.
